Comes Not At A Call
by Lost in Ashes
Summary: Hannibal wants Will to talk to him, Will wants something in return. Set after the season finale.
1. Chapter 1

Will recognises his footsteps now, the particular way they echo down that long corridor. He holds himself very still as we waits, trying to push himself into an animal state– aware of everything, allowing himself to anticipate nothing.

"Hello, Will."

It isn't any use pretending to be asleep. Will had decided from the beginning to show no evasion, no avoidance. He can't hide, after all. No need to reward his psychiatrist with an exhibition of just how powerless he is in here.

"Dr Lecter."

He looks his psychiatrist full in the eyes, and won't let him wince at the way his voice rasps.

Dr Lecter smiles at him. "It is good to see you looking better."

Will doesn't respond.

"How have you been occupying your time since my last visit? I don't see the book I left for you. Did you dispose of it, or did our friend Chilton?"

One of Will's hands tightens into a fist, involuntarily.

"Ah, it was you. This is childish, Will." He sounds disappointed. Will transfers his gaze to the floor and tries not to think about how that thought burns in the back of his throat.

"Will," Hannibal says gently. "I can't help you if you don't speak to me."

Will focuses on his breath, in and out. The floor is dark, well trodden linoleum, scuffed by the tread of endless footsteps. Not much to do here, but walk back and forward. Up and down his cell. Read the books Hannibal brought for him- or simply tear them apart page up page.

Hannibal sighs, a short exhalation of breath, barely audible – but enough to make Will look up. Unfortunate.

"You used to trust me." Hannibal says.

Will can't help it this time. A bubble of sound escapes his throat, the beginning of a laugh or a sob. Hannibal makes a brief aborted movement towards him, expression concerned. He stops short of course, eyes turning to the bars on the window of Will's cell.

"I always forget." He says, a little ruefully. "If you were in my office I would be able to offer you water. Or a glass of wine."

Breath in, breath out. It isn't enough. His muscles, strung tight with tension are beginning very subtly to shake. Will turns his face away, goes back to lie on his bed. He closes his eyes. _Play dead. _Will hears a sound like a huff of breath, but cannot tell if it is disapproval or amusement. It isn't long before Will hears Lecter's shoes receding again down the dark corridor.

* * *

There is a new pill in his medicine cup at lunch.

"What is this?" he asks the infirmarian.

"Anti depressant." The man says shortly.

Will looks down at it. "Who prescribed it. Dr Chilton – or Dr Lecter?"

The infirmarian shrugs. "I have to see you swallow it." He says.

Will doesn't swallow the pill, at least not until two of the guards are brought in to hold him down, while a third shoves it down his throat. Will thinks helplessly about the pale white shell of an ear in a sink and tries to retch. They hold his mouth closed.

* * *

There is no sense in trying to calculate a logic to Lecter's visits. Sometimes the man visits him twice in as many days. Sometimes weeks elapse. It is three weeks precisely until Will hears his shoes again and he stops exactly where he is, mid pace down his cell.

Lecter tilts his head at Will.

"You weren't expecting me. I did ring ahead, instructed them to inform you. I hate to surprise you like this. It's most uncivil."

Will folds his arms across his chest and waits.

"Are you going to speak to me today?"

Will looks at him, and hopes Lecter can read the contempt written across every muscle in his face. Perhaps he can because Lecter's face seems to grow even stiller.

"Mutism is a symptom of severe psychological distress." He says. "I had hoped the anti depressants would help. Perhaps I should add an anti psychotic."

Will finds himself again envisioning large hands pinning him to the bed, a pill being forced down his sore throat.

"I'm not in distress," he says, his voice sounding rough, gravelly from disuse. "Except at your presence, Doctor."

Hannibal's eyes warm at that, crinkling a little at the corners. "Well, I am glad to hear that." he surveys Will for a moment with apparent fondnesss, an uncle contemplating a favourite nephew.

"And how is the medication taking?"

"It makes me nauseous."

"SSRIs can do that. I can prescribe an anti emetic if you wish."

Will shakes his head.

"This is a difficult period for you, Will. Transition. You have to get used to new ideas about yourself. New horizons. I can make it easier."

Will looks at the floor.

"I know that you're angry, and that is understandable. I hope that one day you will see that your anger is misdirected."

Will laughs, a short frightening burst of sound that seems to echo off the walls and ring in his ears. Lecter doesn't flinch, merely inclinging his head a little, as if to catch the sound more clearly.

"It's a little more than anger, Dr Lecter." Will says.

There is a short silence, and when Dr Lecter speaks his voice is soft enough to feel almost like a caress.

"I should hope so."

* * *

Will dreams that his cell is full of trees, growing close together, packed tight around him, their gnarled trunks almost pressed together. The trees are growing, Will thinks dimly, slowly choking out the remaining oxygen, branches crushing against his chest.

"You used to trust me." A voice whispers in his ear. "_Don't you miss it_?"

Will wakes with a starts, locating his glasses with difficulty. There is a fine sweat on his back and forehead. Blinking for a moment he is sure there is someone in the cell with him, but when he makes himself look again, it is empty.

He feels peculiarly hollow as lies back down to sleep.

* * *

Lecter appears the next day, as if Will had somehow summoned him.

"You don't look as if you are sleeping well."

"I manage."

"Any return of your previous symptoms. Nightmares? Sleepwalking?"

"Where would I walk to?"

Lecter doesn't smile. "I take your health seriously, Will, even if you do not."

"It 's not exactly my biggest problem right now."

"On the contrary," Hannibal says, "Being careless of your own well being is what led you here in the first place."

"Yeah. If I'd just eaten my vegetables like you and Jack told me I'd be doing great."

"We both know it is a deal more complex than that." Lecter says calmly.

"I'm sure Freddie Lounds could write several books about _the things we both know_." Will says.

Lecter raises his eyebrows just a fraction. "A pity she will never get the opportunity."

"She and Abigail were writing a book. She was going to tell her story. _Is that why_?"

Lecter's shoulders rise and fall, eyes rising momentarily to the heavens, suppressing a gentle sigh.

"I can't help you if you don't cooperate with me, Will."

"I don't want your help."

"That is very foolish of you," Lecter snaps. "Without therapy your mental state can only worsen, Will. You might require more serious interventions. Sedatives, anti psychotics. Perhaps even electric shock treatment."

Will's mouth is suddenly very dry "You won't be allowed –"

"I am your primary physician, Will. I have your best interests at heart. Everyone understands that." Hannibal's voice seems to lower slightly, the timbre sounding a little roughened, rich with regret. "You used to understand that once."

"I want someone else to look at me. Alana. Chilton"

"You have to understand, Will, that for most people painful things are best kept out of sight. Out of mind. A lot of people were mistaken about you. It takes peculiar and unusual courage to confront our worst mistakes."

"Courage only you have?"

"I feel that I failed you, Will. I failed Abigail. I want to make it right."

"Well, there's really only one way to do that."

Hannibal blinks at him for a long time, then sighs, turning to go. "If you wish to do this the hard way, Will…."

"Wait," says Will. Hannibal stops to look at him.

"What is it exactly you want me to do?" Will asks.

"I want you to do what you have always done, Will." Hannibal says, eyebrows slightly raised. "I want you to confide in me."

Will digs his fingers hard into the palms of his hands at that, breathing through his nose. The urge to hurt rises black and swift as a tidal wave. There's a reinforced steel door between him and Lecter. The only blood he can draw is his own.

"I'm afraid like I can only be of limited entertainment to you, in here." Will says.

"On the contrary."Hannibal says. "I rather miss our old companionship. Don't you?"

Will looks at him for a long moment. Then he takes a step forward, feeling a smile spread across his face. It's the same smile he sometimes feels at crime scenes, the unleashing of some dark and predatory part of him, a sickening kind of euphoria. It's as if he can taste blood on his teeth and for once, it seems sweet.

"I tell you what," he says, "we can make it into a game."

Lecter's eyes narrow just a fraction. "I'm not accustomed to playing games with patients."

"Ah, but I wasn't just your patient, was I? We were _friends._" Will bares his teeth.

Hannibal looks at him for a long moment. It is impossible to tell what thoughts might be living behind that impassive edifice of a face."What do you suggest?"

"I'll answer your questions," says Will. "But for every question I ask, I get to ask you one in return. And you have to answer - honestly. I'll be able to tell. You can't lie to lie to me. Not now I've seen who you are."

"I am your psychiatrist, Will." Lecter says. "You are not mine."

Will holds up his hands, showing bloodied palms. He sees Lecter's expression shift ever so slightly, a brief flicker of something almost human.

"Then you'll have to drug me with everything in the pharmacy, _Doctor_. You'll have to zap my brains until there isn't anything left. Because I _won't_ stop fighting you, not while there is any part of me still alive and awake. You'll have a walking corpse to run your thought experiments on, not me. Nothing _interesting_ in that."

"We will have to work on your destructive impulses, Will." Hannibal says coolly. He raises one finger to his lips, tracing the arch of them with his finger. "What you are proposing is very unorthodox. But it could be very beneficial." All of a sudden Hannibal's eyes seem to brighten with a tawny gleam. "You always manage to surprise me."


	2. Chapter 2

The lights never completely go out in prison. Will is surprised by how much he misses the dark. That sweet all concealing blackness, the nearest thing to oblivion.

Impossible here. The lights in the corridor are never turned out, even at night, a constant stream of chilly artificial light creeping in through his window. Will tries sleeping with the blanket over his face, but he wakes at night convinced that he has been buried, gasping and clawing his way out from underneath the cloying mess of sheets.

"There are ways to take control of your surroundings," Hannibal says. "Techniques to drown out outside interference. I can teach you, if you like."

Will looks up. Several weeks without sleep have left him groggy. Or perhaps it is the medication. He blinks. Why doesn't he remember Hannibal arriving?

"No." he says. "I don't want – I'm good."

Hannibal makes a disapproving tutting sound under his breath.

"I tire of watching you fall apart, Will."

"And yet you still keep coming."

"I'm only sorry that I can't see you more often. I could prevent you getting into a state like this."

Will turns his head to look at him. Hannibal is standing very close to the glass this time. There is a tension in his shoulders that in any one else would read as genuine concern. Will closes his eyes again.

"Do you remember out agreement?" he asks.

Will can hear Hannibal shift slightly, feet scraping a little on the concrete floor. He clenches his fists, trying to quiet the flood of suggestion his mind is calling up. Talking to Lecter is a strange kind of war and he needs to _focus_.

"I never forget anything you tell me."

"Hah." Will opens his eyes again at that, tilting his head back. Lecter looks at him, an expression of mild hurt on his face.

"Do you wish to begin today?" Lecter asks.

"No time like the present." Will says, with vicious brightness.

There is a silence that grows and fills the cell around him. Deliberate, Will thinks. Hannibal wants Will to break, and look at him. And Will won't. He won't. His nails dig deep into his palms. He can feel the crescent shaped ridges of scar tissue forming where he'd cut into them before.

"Perhaps," Lecter says and Will can't help it. His eyes fly open, landing on his psychiatrist and taking in everything, the neat twist to his paisley tie, the concerned wrinkles in his brow, everything.

"Perhaps we should view this as a new beginning. Wipe the board clean and start again."

"Perhaps." Will says.

"Conventionally speaking, therapy begins by determining one's goals. What do you hope to gain from our discussions, Will? You have set the parameters. What is your intended object?"

Will glares straight at Hannibal. "I want my freedom."

There is a short silence in which Hannibal stares unblinkingly at Will.

"You specifically prohibited me from lying to you during the course of this little game. Am I to take it you don't play by your own rules?"

"I'm not lying."

Hannibal's lips curve slightly, a humourless approximation of a smile.

"You don't find it peaceful in here? Away from all the clamour and din of human expectation and disappointment, that was once so painful to you?"

"You've already asked one question." Will says. "It's my turn now."

Hannibal inclines his head slightly, a gesture of amused acquiescence.

"Tell me," Will says. "About the first time you went hunting."

Hannibal tilts his head in apparent puzzlement. "You think that I hunt?"

"I know you do." Will says.

A faint dimple appears in the corner of Hannibal's cheek, eyes glinting with genuine amusement.

"I was at school," he says."I was feeling rather under stimulated. It seemed like a way to pass the time. There was what seemed like an appropriate hunting ground nearby. Easy prey. I'd read on the subject of course. In retrospect my methods were rather crude. Luck rather than skill enabled me to track and disable my prey."

"Did it fight back?" Will asks.

"It didn't see me coming." Hannibal says. "Deer can be very stupid animals."

Will fights the horrible and unanticipated urge to laugh.

"How would you describe your current problems?" Hannibal asks suddenly. "In your own words."

"Let's see," Will says. "I've been framed for multiple murders, and I'm looking at spending the rest of my life in prison or worse, with you and Chilton poking at me."

"A very serious circumstance." Hannibal says, mildly. "You do not mention any difficulties with your mental health."

"I'm no more crazy than I have always been," Will says.

"And that particular brand of insanity no longer concerns you."

"I didn't kill anyone." Will says stolidly.

Hannibal lets out a soft sigh.

"Are you going to tell me I'm wrong?"

"I believe there would be a kind of truth in saying the man in front of me did not kill anyone." Hannibal says. "But you are not always yourself, Will."

"No," Will says. "Sometimes I'm _you_."

Hannibal looks up at him, a particular gleam in his eye.

"It's my turn to ask a question." Will says, and find himself inexplicably breathless.

Hannibal opens his arms and bows his head, a theatrical gesture of subjugation. "Be my guest."

"Why do you keep coming back?" Will asks. "What is it that you want from me?"

Hannibal raises his head a little, tipping back on his heels thoughtfully.

"There are many reasons. As a psychological study you are quite unique. Your reactions fascinate me."

Will looks away, mouth curling in disgust.

"But that is not the only reason." Hannibal says, more gently. "I consider you – a friend, perhaps more than that. A member of my family, not by blood perhaps but somewhere under the skin. Sometimes I see a version of myself in you. If I had had a different life, been less fortunate in my early experiences, perhaps… perhaps our fates would not be dissimilar."

"You're wrong." Will says. "We aren't alike at all."

His words seem to echo strangely, and Will looks around a little disorientated. The room seems somehow darker than it has been, the shadow of Hannibal at the window looming unexpectedly large.

"How long have we been talking?"

"Are you having difficulty keeping track of time?"

"In here? I think anyone would."

Hannibal says nothing. He continues to look at Will, until every inch of his skin prickles with discomfort.

"I want you to go now." Will says. "I don't have any more questions. And I don't want to say anymore."

Hannibal says nothing but continues to stand and stare at Will for a long time. When he finally departs he does it silently – Will does not notice him leave.


	3. Chapter 3

It begins as a buzzing, a low intermittent restlessness beginning at the base of Will's skull and spreading outwards. There is a crawling sensation under his skin, one of his legs twitches as if in an effort to escape. Will takes a deep breath and tries to hold it. Walks to the corner of his cell where there is a cup of water and takes a swig. This feeling is a little like thirst, a lot like drowning. He can't keep still but movement brings no relief. The buzzing has evolved to a high pitched whining sound in his ears, his skin prickling, chest aching. He imagines a swarm of bees trapped inside the hollowed out drum of his chest, crawling over one another, and butting against his ribs. He clutches at the roots of his hair, tugs at it, bites at his lips. Nothing helps. He can feel every fibre of the shirt on his back, clinging to his suddenly far too sensitive skin. He struggles with the urge to tear it off, aware that the cool press of air would be just as bad.

"This isn't psychosis," Will says.

It's been hours since it started and Will is crouched, huddled in the far corner of his cell, cheek pressed against the metal legs of his bed.

"How can you be sure?" Hannibal's voice seems to ripple through the darkened room. Will imagines the molecules in the air shifting with the sound waves, tries not to flinch at the thought of them moving against his skin.

"This isn't – normal – for me. Something…" Will gasps out. He rubs at his eyes. "_You_ did something."

"Hmmm," Hannibal reaches for the chart on the other side of Will's door, flicks though it. "You may be right."

Will looks up disbelievingly.

Hannibal's head is slightly bent, eyebrows raised in what looks like contrition. "It's possible that what you are experiencing is the interaction effect of two different medications. I was unaware Dr Chilton had prescribed meclizine. A case of too many psychiatrists spoil the broth, I'm afraid."

"You-" Will says. "I want to come off it."

"Of course," Hannibal says. "I'll make a note to discontinue the meclizine immediately."

"No," Will says.

Hannibal raises his eyebrows, questioningly.

"I want to come off all of them. All the medications. Please."

Hannibal sighs. "Will, I cannot guarantee your safety – the safety of the others in this building, if you are unmedicated. I would need to see significant improvements before I take such a step,"

"What –improvements would you need to see?"

"I need you to be open with me…"

"I am," Will says, hoarsely. "I am open with you."

Hannibal tilts his head. "Hardly, Will. There is still so much that you keep from me. I suppose – " he hesitates.

"Yes?"

Hannibal sighs. "It's difficult for me to work under these conditions. Sharing you with other doctors. You see what happens when two psychiatrists work at cross purposes," Hannibal waves the chart.

"You want me to ask for you as my psychiatrist – only you."

"I believe the authorities might take your wishes into account - if you think it would be helpful."

Will stares at Hannibal, a long cold stare. "No more visits from Chilton, then."

"If you were under my exclusive care, no. No more visits from Dr Chilton, or Dr Bloom…."

Will draws in a breath. "You said she didn't want to see me,"

Hannibal shrugs. "I can't say I consider such an encounter advisable, not at present. Upsetting for you both."

Will holds his gaze for a long moment. "Fine." He says. "No Chilton. No Alana."

Hannibal's mouth twitches almost imperceptibly at the corners, "Well then," he says. "That's settled."

* * *

The buzzing dissipates slowly, leaving in its place a blunted nausea that sits low on Will's stomach. When he sits up his head swims, so instead he lies, legs carefully crossed and arms folded on his chest waiting for the withdrawal to fade. He imagines himself somewhere else, somewhere green and open, with the sky stretching above. He can almost smell the damp sweet smell of the earth, hear the distant rushing of the river – and over it the hard distinct click of shoes on linoleum.

"Back so soon."Will says. It's rude of him, but he can't bear to open his eyes. The world behind them is beautiful.

"I was concerned with how you might be feeling after the reduction in your medication," Hannibal says."But you look well."

"I feel better," Will says.

"Nausea? Photo-sensitivity?"

"A little."

"Well, it's to be expected. And how are you feeling about the other conditions of our agreement?"

Will opens his eyes a little to look at Hannibal. The light stings, and he can only make Hannibal out dimly, a dark shadow in the doorway.

"A question for a question,"

"Quite," Hannibal says. There is a pause during which Will wonders he might be spared the ordeal this time. But no.

"Tell me about your mother."

Will's eyes do snap open at that."You've asked me this before."

"And you lied to me," Hannibal's voice is soft, reproachful. "We've agreed that you aren't going to do that anymore."

Will shuts his eyes again, presses his palms against them hard enough that he can see spots dancing in front of his vision.

"I don't really remember her."

"You remember something."

"Yeah, maybe." Will says. The green fields have vanished now, but the sky above him is still open, a pale endless pitiless blue. The air tastes thick with heat and dust, and he can feel the backdraft on his face from passing cars, the sound of them cracking like a whip as they pass him.

"Will," Hannibal's voice carries a warning note.

"She took me with her," Will says. "When she left my dad. I remember being, on – on the road with her. Sitting next to her in the front of the car. She was crying."

Hannibal lets out a soft breath, a sound that could mean approval, satisfaction. Will isn't stupid enough to take it as permission to stop talking..

"All of a sudden she pulled over to the side of the freeway. It was the middle of nowhere. She got out of the car, lifted me out and set me down. She was – still crying. She didn't even look at me. "

Will stops, takes a breath. The air around him feels too hot and close. He has the roaring of traffic in his ears.

"She drove away. She just left me there, on the side of the road with all the cars going past. You know how is feels when a car speeds past you? Like it's ripped the air around it clean in two. They went past, car after car. I couldn't hear myself think, couldn't call out to anyone."

"How long were you beside the roadside?"

"I don't know," Will says. "Not long. "

"Yet you remember it vividly."

"I'd rather forget it."

Hannibal makes a noise in the back of his throat.

"My turn," Will says. His throat still feels dry.

"Very well," Hannibal says.

"Your parents. Tell me what you remember about them."

"I've told you before," Hannibal says, in a bored tone. "I remember nothing."

"How old were you when they died?"

"Twelve," Hannibal said.

Will turns his head sharply to look at Hannibal. He's in the same position at the door, face expressionless.

"How did they die?"

"You've already asked your questions, I believe," Hannibal says.

Will frowns at him, and Hannibal smiles a little indulgently, a kindly uncle granting a child a favour.

"They were on holiday –hiking in the mountains. The mostly likely explanation is that they somehow lost their way and died of exposure."

"You were with them."

Hannibal shrugs. "As I said, I remember nothing about it."

"Don't you want to?"

Hannibal tilts his head, giving Will a long assessing look.

"Where do you think your mother went after she left you, with the tears streaming down her face, by the side of the road? What do you think she intended to do?"

Will looks away.

"Sometimes," Hannibal says. "Ignorance seems like the kinder option. Does it not?"

There is a short silence.

"I think we've made progress today, Will." Hannibal says, and Will looks up, hating himself for feeling a momentarily flash of pleasure at the warmth in his voice.

"I think so," Will echoes, dryly.

"Let me know if the nausea persists."

Will nods and closes his eyes again, as he hears Hannibal's footsteps echo into the distance. It isn't the field he sees now, or a deserted highway. Instead he imagines the cold sweet air blown over the top of the mountain, the distant bubble of a brook. Slowly, turning the images over in his mind, he starts to fall asleep.


End file.
